Remember Tonight
by Freewheeler
Summary: After nearly losing him in the explosion at the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust, she thinks she knows what she wants. How many days for a wall to come down? ** M-RATED ** Entry for the 2013 Castle Ficathon. ** This story goes AU from Cops and Robbers **
1. Prologue

**_"Remember tonight…for it is the beginning of always."- Dante_**

DAY ONE – Late Saturday Night

* * *

_It always begins with the explosion._

_The rumble and flash and concussion of the blast. The smell of smoke that claws at her throat, the choking pall of concrete dust that settles over everything._

_As the floor of the hostage negotiation command station quakes under her feet, the one thought crowding her mind is his name. She feels she's lost him for sure, and it's like a punch to the solar plexus._

_She watches herself stumble out into the lengthening afternoon shadows, and sees for the first time the smoking, skeletal hulk on Lexington Avenue that used to be the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust._

_She runs, panicked, through the clouds of dust, dodging the emergency first responder crews, and tries to tamp down the obstruction in her throat that she knows to be a scream, as she goes to see whether her partner has survived the explosion. No one could survive something like that, surely?_

_Her mind is in a flat spin as she crosses the former entrance of the bank and takes a few hazardous first steps inside._

_He has to be all right. He has to be all right._

_She shouts his name, not even trying to mask her fear, and she waits for a response as she continues to stagger across the wrecked floor, over the rubble of crumbled brick, torn wiring and reams of scattered, scorched paper._

_She hears no response. The sights and sounds around her continue but her ears are attuned for any hint of the one voice that matters to her. But she hears nothing. Fear clenches her stomach with a cold fist as she proceeds further into the building._

_She's pushed aside by a team of EMTs and she lurches off-balance, skinning her shin on a piece of broken brick that protrudes from a clump of shattered wall in front of her._

_She follows the emergency workers and her knees nearly give way at the sight before her._

_The hostages, huddled together in the cage underneath the bank's main floor. All of them, prone and silent._

_She sees a familiar splash of brightly colored fabric and moves towards it, fearing what her eyes are telling her. Not willing to believe what she sees. She staggers toward it and falls to her knees._

_Castle is there, his mother is there, the other hostages too, but all is silent. He's not conscious...he's..._

_The sound of a woman screaming splits her eardrums._

_It takes her a moment to realize that it's her own voice._

* * *

Kate sits up in bed with a jolt, sweating, breathing hard, her heart galloping. She suspects she may be hoarse from silent screaming.

She gasps as she hears a grunt from beside her and a hand slides warm across the skin of the small of her back. "You okay?" he mumbles.

"Castle..." She lies back down and rolls on top of him, slips her hands down his arms to clasp his fingers with hers. Their joined hands drift upwards as he reaches for her. She meets him halfway, kissing him soft but deep, pressing her tongue into his mouth, imposing on his space, and reassuring herself that he's really there.

The hurricane candle on her dresser has been burning for hours and it still flickers, throwing beguiling outlines onto the wall, casting just enough light for the couple in the bed to see each other and not much more. The quiet of her bedroom is relative, broken by the city's white noise of early Sunday morning sounds. Local bars emptying, taxis taking the drunks, the lovers home.

"Dream again?"

"Yeah...the same one." She looks deep into his eyes then nuzzles his cheek, breathes in his presence, breathes out, a warm tickle on the skin of his cheek. He's here.

She shifts and relishes the hot pressure of his growing erection against her. "I'm extra glad to see you," she says, rolling her hips deliberately into his.

He groans, his eyes drifting shut with the effort to keep himself under some control. She smirks when he bucks his hips into hers, but drops her smile when he presses a hard thigh between hers, then takes advantage of her distraction to flip and roll her under him, entering her with one stroke. She draws and releases a breath on a sobbing moan, eyes shut, back arching against the delicious, pulsing pressure of him.

He's here. With her. Right here, inside her. He's safe.

* * *

Kate sits up in bed with a jolt. She looks around, frustrated, mildly disappointed. She's alone in bed, as is generally the case these days.

That dream, though. About Castle. Her partner, her friend, her future - maybe – something more.

The dream about the bank explosion was no surprise. She's had that dream more than once in the couple of weeks since the blast happened, and never fails to leave her feeling very unsettled and upset.

But the dream that they were...together? She recalls the particulars of that dream and lays her cool hands on her burning cheeks.

Yeah, that dream.

What the _hell_ was that?

* * *

**Author's Note: **This my first M!fic and my entry for the 2013 Castle Ficathon. I'll try not to panic that I now have to dream up the rest of a 50,000 word story!

Many thanks to KyinHI for the on the spot betaing, waving the pom poms and insisting I MUST WRITE THIS because she NEEDS TO READ IT. Read her stuff! She's awesome!

Based on a prompt from the Prompt Queen, lousiemcdoogle. Hope you like, lady! Read her stuff! She's excellent!

Tell me what you think? (hopeful smiley face)

_Edited: 24/05/2013 Minor edits and corrected a reference to Sunday, not Saturday morning._


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Day 2 - Sunday**

* * *

What the hell was that?

She's still a little shell shocked, cheeks still warm, heart racing, and the memory of the dream sending a fresh wave of heat pulsing through her. Her sleep clothes and the bed linen are disordered and twisted around her body. She rolls restlessly onto her back with a sigh.

She really thought she had it sorted.

She stretches her arms above her head, before rubbing her eyes, sighing deeply.

Sorted? Not so much.

He's been on her mind for a couple of years. She didn't know what to call it at the outset. They built theory, matched wits, jousted, teased, flirted, struck sparks. Some days he was all that kept her going back to a difficult job day after day.

Things could have been so different. They could have been enjoying more than sparks, _way_ more than sparks, from back when he invited her to the Hamptons for the weekend, after she let a perfectly nice guy down gently, on the strength of a less than sure bet.

It still grinds her gears that the writer didn't give her one more damn day before deciding to shack up with his ex.

There's been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He told her he loved her, and she broke up with another boyfriend.

He told her he loved her! But with the death of her captain, and the new bullet in her own chest... his timing could have been better. So she did what any injured, overwhelmed, traumatized, bereaved Detective Beckett would do under the circumstances: she ignored it. For the time being, anyway.

But the thought of it has never ever been unwelcome. The talking they did was proof of that; when she was fresh back on the job after her shooting, when she managed to coax the angry, hurt writer back into her life on a veiled promise of more.

She rolls onto her side; the comforter tangles around her legs. She kicks at it absentmindedly, and stares at the yellow contrails of light from traffic and streetlamps as they play across her bedroom wall. She considers how thoroughly the landscape has changed.

When she found him alive, saw his face after fearing him dead in the bomb blast, she knew that more than bank walls had come down. She felt for a brief moment like her mother's case didn't exist. It had felt like there was nothing to stop them.

And in the dream she's just had, that Kate Beckett, the one making love with Castle, she no longer had a wall. It had been all but obliterated. She almost didn't recognize a Kate Beckett so in love that she was luminous with it; so free.

And right now? She's having flashbacks to a candle flickering in a dark room, the feel of sweat-slicked skin sliding on skin; flashbacks to events that haven't happened.

_Yet_, her mind supplies helpfully.

So she's beginning to think that maybe now, she doesn't have it sorted. Not at all.

She feels wide awake now, _and_ heated and agitated. She tugs at the waistband of her yoga pants, which have pulled and twisted around her body, and she wriggles around trying to straighten them, only succeeding in making things worse.

Giving up on the idea of sleep for the moment, she sits up, throws the covers back, and climbs out of bed. Pulling her yoga pants and sleep shirt off in exasperation and dumping them at the foot of her bed, she grabs her short silk kimono, which she ties on over her underwear and heads out to the kitchen.

* * *

As milk and chai spices simmer in a saucepan on the stovetop, she reaches toward the back of a top shelf, taking down the cocoa jar, levering the lid open, straining and whisking the hot milk with the cocoa powder, pouring it into a clean mug she's picked up from the drying rack of her sink.

She takes the steaming mug and stretches out on her sofa, draping a fleece throw across her bare legs. She stares into space, wrapping both hands around the warming vessel, inhaling the richly spiced aroma.

_I'm not gonna be able to have the kind of relationship that I want until that wall comes down. And it's not gonna happen till I put this thing to rest._It was only a few weeks ago that she'd said that. At the time she couldn't see the wall coming down without resolving her mother's case.

But could it? Or would choosing a relationship with him mean walking away from investigating her mother's case, never knowing who's to blame for her death; letting her mother's murderer get away scot-free...again?

Could she live with that?

The investigation seems all but stalled, sure, but walking away from it would feel like walking away from the very thing that drove her, like walking away from herself.

And how healthy is she, really? She's returned to weekly sessions with a therapist. They help, they do. But she still needs them. As it is, she's got this nagging feeling that the wrong sort of case might snap any tenuous thread of control she's managed to weave together over the last few weeks.

_But if we start something, and it goes wrong, I won't survive that, either._

She just doesn't know...

* * *

She catches the time readout on her microwave and grimaces; rinses out her mug and places it in the dishwasher, and trails back down the hallway to her bedroom.

She doesn't bother to put her sleeping outfit back on; she shucks her robe, and climbs back into bed, her favourite cotton sheets soothing to her skin. She pulls the comforter up to her chin, but hesitates.

She picks up her cell phone from the nightstand, and selects his contact listing, running the pad of her thumb back and forth across the smooth screen, tantalisingly close to tapping the call button.

She shuts her eyes and slowly shakes her head. _It's four AM, are you insane?_

She throws the phone back onto the night stand with an exasperated sigh, huddles down under the covers, shuts her eyes, and wills sleep to come.

* * *

_She straddles her partner, devouring his lips with her own and pressing him back into the less-than-comfortable seat built for one, using her fingers to infiltrate the waistband of his work slacks, undoing his belt and top button, teasing his fly down far enough to let her hand in, as he helplessly groans his acquiescence into her mouth._

_Her hands tremble with the sense of power over him and the thrill of being on the edge of getting caught, fingers smoothing a warm path down the front of his pants to work their way under the elasticated waistband of his boxers._

_"Kate, what are you…ohhh..."_

_As she curls her fingers around him she can hear his unsteady gasp, feel his pelvis jerk upwards into hers._

_Her knees slip down the side of the chair and it's less comfortable but now her body is absolutely flush with his from chest to hip. She grasps the headrest of the seat with both hands and uses the force of gravity and her own bodyweight to messily grind her hips into his._

_He frees his own lips on a helpless groan, "Mmm! Kate. God, Kate..."_

_Her mouth descends again, swallowing his words, before breaking away again. Reaching up and working quickly, she turns both keys, releasing his right, and her left, hands from the cuffs, re-clipping one free end to the headrest post and the other around his left wrist, and she feels his newly-freed hand stroke up her outer thigh to tease her skin with his fingertips under the hemline of her very short skirt, and to grasp her ass, pulling her in tight, close._

_She moans with the additional pressure, admiring - not for the first time - what he is able to achieve with one hand tied behind his back, or, more precisely, one hand cuffed behind his head._

_She breaks their kiss and grins, whispering "heads up!", reaching for the lever that reclines the seat as far back as it will go, and he descends to near-horizontal orientation with a yelp._

_She watches him blush, and his Adam's apple bob, as she crouches down in the cramped footwell, leaning into his lower half, and easing his trousers down his thighs so that they're out of the way._

_And she's reflecting that though there are definitely better places to make out than a police-issue Crown Victoria, with police-issue handcuffs, there's nothing like the element of surprise for really getting the jump on your suspect..._

* * *

She sits bolt upright in bed, panting to catch her breath.

_Not again!_

She throws the bedclothes back and bolts to the bathroom, surveying her flushed features, her agitated breathing, her glassy eyes in the mirror. She runs cold water into the basin and splashes it on suddenly overheated skin.

_This is getting ridiculous, _she thinks.

She returns to her bedroom, grabs her phone and aggressively swipes her thumb across the phone screen, selecting the familiar number, and types out a text.

_Hey...Can we meet? we really need to talk..._

* * *

Author's Note: Hope you like! Drop me a review to let me know what you thought :D

Thanks to KyInHI for brilliant and very helpful betaing! I was all impulsive though and made a bunch of extra changes and uploaded anyway. So anything that looks classy and well-written, that's to her credit, any boo-boos are my fault (smiley smiley). Also hearts to my Facebook girls for the encouragement and excellent Castle and fic chat.


	3. Chapter 2

Day 2 (continued) - Sunday

She finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep as pink day tinted the horizon, and she only woke when the muted fall sunlight streamed in through the window and lay in shimmering white streaks across her bed.

* * *

The sun has dropped even lower in the sky, and there's a chill wind, by the time Kate leaves her apartment. She dodges passersby on the sidewalk, barely registering the Sunday joggers and dog-walkers, the young families, doing their best to catch the last rays of the fast-fading fall daylight.

Kate shivers and rubs her hands together for warmth, and then sticks them into the pockets of her leather jacket as she hurries down the sidewalk to the appointed meeting place.

She reaches the café and opens the door. She's a little apprehensive about the conversation she's about to have. But she knows it's long overdue. Things can't keep going on the way they have. She needs to get her head straight.

_What I actually need is a good night's sleep_. She shakes her head ruefully and goes inside.

* * *

"It's great you were able to meet me. Thanks for coming out," Kate says as the server places their drinks in front of them, the slick new cafe where they're about to have lunch still buzzing with mid-afternoon activity.

"You know I've got your back. Especially if there's late lunch involved. And girl talk. And when you're buyin'."

Kate smiles at her friend.

"And d'you think I'd miss this? After you text me, saying you need to talk? At four AM?" Lanie shoots her friend a piercing stare. "So what's-"

Lanie is interrupted by the server arriving at their table to take their meal orders.

After the server's departure, Lanie pours sugar syrup, and then some more, into her highball glass of iced tea and stirs it with a long spoon, before dropping the spoon to clatter noisily onto the table next to the glass. She takes a sip, sighs, and pushes her glass to one side. Then, chin resting on her hands, elbows propped up on the table, she leans forward. "So dish. What's going on?"

"Well, you know how Castle and Martha were caught up in that bank hostage scenario a couple weeks ago?"

"How could I forget? You and Writer Boy were all but sitting in each other's laps for days afterward. So what's up? That boy come to his senses and ask you to go steady?"

"Lanie!" Kate mock-glares at her friend.

"What? I'm just sayin' if I had a rich, gorgeous writer lookin' at me that way, I wouldn't be dancin' around him like a high school freshman, I'd be holed up in his apartment for a week with champagne and chocolate sauce. So...?"

"Well..."

"Kate Beckett! Do you mean to tell me you and Writer Boy-"

"Lanie! No! I've just been...having these dreams. Last couple of nights. I haven't been getting much sleep."

"What kinda dreams?"

"Well, I started off reliving the explosion at the bank, but then the dreams...changed." Kate blushes and drops her gaze.

Lanie nods. "Ohhh. Like that, huh? Nice. So are you gonna tell him about it?"

"I don't know...I can't come right out and tell him I'm having-" She checks around her for eavesdroppers and her voice drops to a stage whisper. "-sex dreams about him!"

"And why not? It's not like he's really gonna play hard to get. Or like, at all. He'd be bustin' down your apartment door in a tux with a rose between his teeth if he thought for a second you'd be up for it. Kate, Kate, Kate...it's crystal clear what's going on here."

"But I have to work with the guy, he's my friend. I don't even have time for a relationship. I'm in therapy. I got shot five months ago, for god's sake."

"They're all great excuses, but there's not a single good reason among them not to move on with your life. Especially not after everything the two of you have been through together. Life's way too short."

"Yeah well maybe that's half of what I'm afraid of. Not that he'll turn me down, but that he won't." Kate stares down at her coffee mug, scratching at the handle absentmindedly with her thumbnail. "When I think about what would have happened to me if I'd lost him in that explosion...I don't think I would have survived it. But our friendship's so important to me. What if we get into a relationship and I screw it up? I won't survive that either."

"Oh honey. You won't know until you try. Don't doubt his feelings for a second. The guy looks to me like he's crazy about you. You're both smart people. You can figure things out as you go."

"Well that's the other thing..."

"Oh yeah?" Lanie shifts forward in her seat curiously.

"I don't doubt his feelings at all ..."

"Which means _what_ exactly? Have you been holding out on me, Kate Beckett?!"

"I guess...maybe a little. At Montgomery's funeral, after I got shot...he told me he loved me..."

"He told you-?!" Lanie recoils in surprise. "Well what are you waiting for? You're single! He's single! The guy _loves_ you. Why are we even having this conversation?" She shakes her head uncomprehendingly.

"Well he doesn't know that I know."

Lanie sighs. "Okay, and why is that?"

Kate gulps and mumbles at the floor, "I kind of told him I didn't remember anything about the shooting." She cringes in anticipation of Lanie's reaction.

"You what?! Why on earth would you lie about something about that?"

Kate shrugs sheepishly. "I needed time. But I'm starting to feel like I want to tell him I heard him. It's time he knew. It's unfair to keep this from him."

"I'll say it's unfair! That poor guy. Imagine hanging, waiting like that without a word!"

"Oh, not without a word. We did talk when I came back to work and I did sort of hint to him that we could give it a try when I put my mother's case behind me..."

"Well, that's something, at least. But Kate," says Lanie more gently, putting her hand on Kate's arm and leaning in closer to her, "your mom died when you were nineteen. How much longer are you gonna keep putting your life on hold? Keep Castle waiting? He's a good man, but you can't expect him to wait for you forever. And it's not fair on you either. Honey, you deserve to be happy too."

"I know."

"Well, you know what I think? I think you should go over there – tonight - and talk to the guy. You know what to do."

* * *

He doesn't know what to do.

Castle sits in the darkening living room of his loft. He's stretched out on the leather sofa, staring through the amber liquid in the beveled lead crystal tumbler in his hand.

He's alone. His mother, possibly still giddy from cheating death in her ordeal at the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust two weeks ago, is out at post-show drinks with a couple of her colleagues. "Don't wait up," she'd told him, waggling her eyebrows.

Castle shudders anew and refuses to parse that little nugget for any further meaning. He only hopes he's not around to see her Walk of Shame tomorrow, or worse, hear her retell her exploits blow-by-blow. (He flinches at even _thinking_ stuff like that, because it leads his word-associating monkey-mind down even more murky pathways). He drains his glass and immediately pours and throws back another, letting an internal pummeling by the peaty Irish 18-year-old drive the unsavory images from his head.

Achieving mental peace again, he pours another drink. _Last one_, he promises, and his senses return to a state of equilibrium as he feels the heat of the fire warm his socked feet, and watches the flames dance hypnotically, sending refracted fire flare through the cut whisky glass.

Silence reigns.

It's been two weeks since he saw that look on his partner's face.

He thinks back to that afternoon, hearing her voice and then seeing her face, so grateful he was alive...and something more. He knows how he feels, because he's already told her, and he just can't shake the feeling that she knows. He thinks she knows.

He thinks she knows because when he heard her voice calling his name in the wreckage of the bank, not even attempting to hide her fear, and then when he saw her, that look on her face; he knew. Even if she doesn't remember her shooting, he could tell in that bank vault that she felt the same. It made him start thinking about a future for them again. A time where he'd wake up in the morning and her face, that smile, would be the first thing he'd see. And seeing that look on her face, that smile, made him strong enough to dare to believe she saw the same kind of future for them too.

Then his mother had interrupted them (he was going to have to have a talk with her about that sort of thing), and the spell was broken. But all day, then all that evening, when she came and had dinner with them, he had seen a tiny glimmer of that same look.

However since then, neither of them has done anything about it. Nothing has changed.

He doesn't know what to do, but he guesses there's nothing he _can_ do. She said she needed time to put her mother's case to rest, before her wall comes down. He's completely prepared to give her that.

It's just...

It's not easy. Seeing her every day at work and just being her work partner. It's exciting to work with her and the boys, sure, but it's starting to not be enough - not nearly enough - for him.

It's getting to be tough to be around her. Physically tough. To have her close enough to kiss, and to want to, so badly, and yet not be allowed. To want to taste her skin, to tease his fingers under her staid work button-down shirt, to stroke the tender skin of her wrist, to run his fingers through her hair and mess it up making out with her in the stairwell while she scolds him gently for PDAs in the precinct.

He wants everything with her. Roses and wine. For her to know how he feels, and to know she feels the same way. To be finally able to kiss her anytime, anywhere. To make love to her. Then, a diamond ring. A white dress and tux. Pink lines on a little plastic test. He wants the works.

And when something like a hostage situation in a bank happens, and everything you've got, everything you-... _yeah, everything I love_, is in danger of being ripped away, it brings it all into sharp focus.

He knows for sure he doesn't want another year, not even another month to go by without making sure she knows how he feels.

He reaches his arms above his head and stretches out, trying to work out the kinks and twinges in his heavy frame, his whole body stiff from several hours on the sofa.

He was supposed to be writing tonight, but he hasn't gone near his laptop, preferring to spend the time with Nikki Heat's flesh-and-blood counterpart, if only in his mind.

He rubs his eyes. They feel gritty and it's getting impossible to keep them open. He places his glass on the coffee table and lays back down on the sofa, crossing his arms behind his head on the armrest, and closes his eyes.

It's so warm in here, and his body is so loose; the room's started to rock him gently. He shuts his eyes. Just a few minutes will do...

* * *

Author's Note: YOU GUISE! Own up! How many of you thought she was texting Castle? (winky) It can't be that easy. We've got 28 more days to get through.

Love and smooches to KyinHI for being the most wonderful beta a girl could hope for. Plus, my Facebook girlies. I tell ya, if you're a new writer, the smartest thing you can do is surround yourself with writers like these, and watch the creative sparks fly! I'm so lucky.

Let me know what you thought! Yay? Nay?

_Edited 6/11/2013: Bank and Trust. Bank and Trust! And added a couple of missing punctuation marks._


	4. Chapter 3

DAY 3 - Very early Monday morning

* * *

_He has his tongue in her mouth and his hand is slipping along her naked thigh. He groans, in shocked disbelief besides everything else, that it could come to this, their first time, with so little preamble._

_He's enveloped in her presence as his senses, dizzy and overwhelmed, bring him new input for processing again and again; now, the feel of his thigh gently rasping against her impossibly smooth one; now, her scent, floral and musk mixed with the heat and salt he tastes on her skin; now, the sound of her voice made breathy with panting, and the rustle of his body and hers in a lush tangle of finest weave Egyptian cotton sheets._

_Her name hoarse in his mouth, his hands buried in her hair, her tongue meeting his, stroke for stroke. The sensory overload is driving him to the edge so fast._

_He tears his mouth from hers, his breath ragged in his throat, in his effort to _just slow down; _it_ _earns him a whine of protest from her. He pulls up, blue gazing intently into darkening hazel, "Kate...are you sure you want-"_

_"Castle, I want you." She takes his head in her hands, drawing him down to her kiss._

_"Kate..." he breathes, before driving his tongue into her mouth, kissing her deeply, his hands moving down, down..._

* * *

His eyes open slowly and he regains awareness of his surroundings.

He's still on the sofa but has rolled to lie on his side. He is breathing heavily, and as he wipes his face, he wipes away the sheen of sweat. His skin is hot. He seems to have slept off most of the effects of the whiskey; apart from a parching thirst he's pretty sure isn't going to quit anytime soon.

He's unmistakably aroused. He sits up, runs his hand through his hair, as he wills his breathing under control again. He attempts to adjust his pants, which have become uncomfortably tight.

So. Kate dreams. Huh. Okay. It's been a while.

They used to be fairly spicy, and they fuelled some pretty heated, late-night writing sessions; Heat novel chapters that will likely never see the light of day.

He was having regular dreams before the summer, and they peaked around the time he went to LA with her, when he could barely reel in his attraction to her to within socially acceptable limits.

In particular, he keeps dwelling on that moment in that LA hotel room, when he felt for a second or two that they'd reached a kind of tipping point. They were teetering on the edge of something. Something big.

He guesses he'll never know.

But hot dreams turned into nightmares when she was shot. He'd wake in floods of sweat and with a scream trapped in his chest as his overactive writer's mind generated "what if?" after "what if?" that went from bad to worse. What if she died on the operating table? What if she didn't recover? Was incapacitated? What if he never saw her again?

The nightmares tailed off when she didn't call him for three months, and they were replaced by a string of wakeful nights as, increasingly angry and disappointed, he slowly came to the realization that she wasn't going to.

So erotic dreams really aren't too bad, in the grand scheme of things.

But he's definitely the type to believe in fate, and the law of attraction. So nearly dying with her three times in one day last year? And two weeks ago, surviving being a bank hostage? And not dying in the explosion at the bank that ended the siege?

His nights are once again full of the woman that he has trouble enough getting out of his head during daylight hours as it is...his partner, his best friend, the woman he loves, the one he's waiting for.

He knows to pay attention when the Universe is trying to tell him something.

_Okay Universe, I get it_.

* * *

She didn't go see him tonight.

It's been several hours since she came back from her long lunch, and after a light dinner of soup and a glass of white wine, she's still feeling keyed up and hyper.

She's been on call since midnight, and as late as it now is, there's no way she'll be ready to sleep any time soon.

She lies in the bathtub, lavender-scented bubbles swirling around her as she tries to let the quiet of her apartment calm her mind. She focuses on the small sounds...the sporadic, slow leak of water from the old-style bath faucet, the constant slow drip that building maintenance have never been able to stop completely. The quiet strains of Ella Fitzgerald on her iPod, turned down low, and the hum of the central heating. The gentle lapping of the bath water in time with each languid movement of her body.

She gets what Lanie said. It is getting to be late, almost too late, to finally tell Castle the truth. The truth about what she heard him say, the truth about how she feels about him.

But from Kate's perspective, it's still too soon.

If she goes over there, if she's too open, if she's alone with him for too long before she's worked out exactly what she wants _herself_, she's afraid she might just mess it up.

She tops the bath up with more hot water, settling back down with a folded washcloth covering her eyes.

She's only had a few weeks of therapy since returning to work; she only returned to work a few weeks ago. She's hardly a great candidate for a crucial conversation, or for starting a new relationship, let alone the relationship that might be the most important one of her life.

But one thing she does know now...she's not willing to wait forever. Since the bomb blast in the bank that could have taken him away from her, she's not prepared to risk waiting too long, only to lose out.

She just needs to take a little more time. Soon she'll feel ready to talk. Then they can move forward.

She needs to keep him in the dark about her feelings a just a little while longer.

_That shouldn't be too difficult, right?_

* * *

_She's not sure how it happened or who started it, but it did._

_It'd been an hour and a half since they finished their impromptu French dinner with his family, adrenaline still coursing through their systems. Sparring over who's saved whom most often became swapping stories, which became reliving, but still not fathoming, this unforgettable day._

_It'd been an hour since they'd moved onto the sofa, and the conversation had slowed, the bottle emptied. But instead of standing, handing him her empty glass, grabbing her purse, and making her exit, she kicked off her shoes and moved close enough to him that their thighs were touching, and conversation started giving way to touches and glances._

_It'd been thirty minutes since his family saw the writing on the wall and fled the loft for the night._

_Now, they're stretched out on the sofa, clothes and hair in disarray, hands everywhere. She's shucked her sweater, and a spaghetti strap of her white silk camisole is at half-mast. She's half-lying on top of him, ankles curled around his, her hands buried in his hair, her mouth swallowing his groan._

_The wine glasses they emptied earlier are sitting forgotten on the coffee table next to them._

_She's unbuttoned his shirt, is too impatient, hungry to feel the skin of that broad chest under her hands._

_His big hands are moving boldly up her thighs, dragging the hem of her floral skirt with them__, cupping the curve of her ass, pulling her into him._

_Sitting on top of him, she groans as she feels his arousal creating a delicious pressure on her center. She smiles into his kiss, beginning to unbuttoning his pants._

_"Kate...Kate, wait." He sits up, tries to calm himself, through his visible arousal and clear mental and physical dishevelment._

_She sits up too, confused, climbing off him to sit on the sofa._

_"You're... good with this, right? It's not a 'you almost died' crisis thing?"_

_She moves toward him again, leaning into his side. "I've wanted this for a long time, Castle. I'm sick of lying to myself. I don't want to wait anymore."_

_He reaches for her and she sighs with the relief of finally giving in, of no more waiting, of never letting him go again._

_When they climax together soon afterwards it's with eyes wide open and hands clasped between them, over their thudding hearts._

* * *

She's ripped from sleep when her cell phone rings at 4:30am, not long after she's fallen into an uneasy doze, after the last dream woke her up, with tears on her cheeks and a slow, heavy burn between her thighs.

She drags herself across her bed and sits upright, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, swiping a hand over her face, pushing her hair out of her eyes, as she picks up her cell from the nightstand.

"Beckett..."

* * *

Author's Note: How're we doing? Sorry I couldn't let them talk to each other yet. BAHAHAHAHAHAHA. (Not sorry)

Thanks to Ky for another brilliant beta, and ALSO for helping me to keep my eyes on what I need to do to publish the next chapter. That's what's keeping me updating more often than every financial quarter! (winky) KY ROCKS!

Thanks to my friends in the fandom and you, readers, reviewers, followers and favoriters, without you I wouldn't even be writing! (heart)

_Edited: 21/6/2013: fixed a couple of bugs.._


	5. Chapter 4

DAY 3: Very Early Monday Morning

* * *

"...Yep. And what's the address? Okay. Be there as soon as I can."

Kate disconnects the call, and flops back onto the bed for a moment, her hands over her eyes. A body. The day hasn't even begun, she's exhausted, and there's a body.

It's not her way, and at any rate, hardly realistic, to blame some unfortunate New Yorker for picking today to die. But she does wish that this morning she could have been spared the primary detective gig on a 4:30AM murder investigation. That she could get just a couple more hours' sleep and be one of the lucky ones strolling into the precinct for the beginning of a normal shift.

She's not called in every night she's on call, but she's always aware there's the risk she will be. But today of all days, after the night's sleep she _hasn't_ had...

What little sleep she _has_ had has not refreshed her, but only made her fatigue worse. When you join the force, they tell you it gets easier, and they're right, to a point. But when you're not well-rested, that's when shift-work and early morning calls can really grind you down.

She sits up on the edge of her bed again, and then swipes her hands over her face, which still carries the residue of tears; moved to tears by a lovemaking session that didn't happen but that felt so real. Groggy and still half-asleep when the phone call from Dispatch woke her up; she's really not in top emotional shape for work either. That's definitely not going to help her through this day.

First thing she does after a phone call from Dispatch is call Castle and let him know there's a body; that's what she'd normally do. But today she feels...reluctant, and she's not sure why. _You know very well why._

_Shower_, she tells herself firmly, dodging the tricky subject for now.

She drags herself off her bed, and into the bathroom.

* * *

It's taken the almost uncomfortably hot stream of water pummeling her skin for a few minutes, but she's beginning to feel human.

_But I'll need coffee to really get _that_ job done._ She grimaces. It's a good thing she has stocks at home, because the longer she leaves the task of calling Castle about this body-drop, the less likely it is she can expect a coffee waiting for her when she clocks in.

She showers and dresses quickly, not wanting to delay her arrival at the scene any longer than necessary. Fortunately, she pressed and hung out some work clothes last night, the black pants and blue shirt she's now wearing.

It's not that she's avoiding calling him, it's...well, that's exactly what it is. She chides herself for her own dishonesty. She shakes her head as she quickly applies a basic makeup job, and attempts a hurried tidy-up of her hair, before giving in and pulling the whole calamity up into a messy bun. _That'll have to do._

But what's she's really trying to avoid?

It's not like she's afraid of him. The idea is faintly ridiculous. He's not the moody type. He's constant - _the_ constant in her life. If she calls him this morning, he'll bring her coffee, read her mood, keep her spirits up, drag her out for a bite to eat at lunchtime, and make her go home at a reasonable hour, case permitting.

And even if the case doesn't permit, then he'll stand with her and stare at the murder board until it gives them the answers they need, while the lights go out around them, and the bullpen empties, until they're the only two people left. He'll only go home when he knows she's not going to be sitting there carrying the can all alone. Her constant.

She goes out to the kitchen, hoping to get some home-brewed coffee into her at least. She doesn't know when she'll encounter her next cup.

She's pretty sure she knows what she's afraid of. It doesn't take much imagination. She can't trust herself to act normally around him, not anymore, not now that her subconscious has been giving her such distracting sneak peeks of a future that's hers for the taking.

She thinks about how things used to be with him. How much he used to annoy her, get under her skin; like a bug, just as infuriating, just as much of an affront to her sense of her own control over her environment.

How completely things have changed.

Her mind replays the dream she just had and wonders if that's how she can expect things to be with Castle? How she might actually end up being one day? No walls, open to everything, so alive, and not weighed down by past tragedy.

She's been gifted a view of what potential there is for the two of them, and it's enough to make her head spin.

Right now, with her defenses all but obliterated after the last couple of nights, she thinks she knows the way it's going to go down. He'll keep being the guy he is, and one day, instead of hiding and deflecting and keeping him at arm's length, she'll step up and accept what he's offering. She's got a feeling that's how easy it'll be.

Boy, does that scare her.

So it's back to her old strategies: duck, weave, dodge, deflect, close herself off and hide; they've helped her in the past.

_But just how helpful do you think those strategies will be in the long run, Kate? _She can almost hear Doctor Burke's distinctive baritone like he's sitting in the room.

She ignores him. He'll be able to say his piece tomorrow, when she goes for her regular therapy session. Her old strategies will continue to serve her until the day she's not scared anymore. But when that day comes...

She feels a by-now familiar curl of heat in her midriff just thinking about the prospect. She might be scared now, but it doesn't stop her liking what she's seen so far. If being with him feels half as good as that dream did...wow. She shakes her head and smiles at her inability to form a coherent assessment of her feelings other than... wow. She could so easily slip into daydreaming about it...him...and never want to come out.

But she puts those thoughts to the backburner. She needs to pull herself together for work.

First though, she needs coffee.

Placing a filter into the top of the percolator, she reaches for the coffee caddy, only to find it empty. She remembers that's the state her supply was in yesterday too, and it had slipped her mind to go to the store.

She growls and throws the canister back in the direction of its usual place with exasperation. She rummages desperately in the back of her pantry for some of the instant crap that barely dignifies the name, its only saving grace the requisite amount of caffeine. As she leaves her apartment, she's throwing back the last bitter dregs.

She doesn't call Castle.

* * *

DAY 6: Very early Thursday morning

It's past midnight as he speeds down the Long Island Expressway towards the Eastport exit, and the final stretch before he arrives at his beach house.

_What a fucking disaster._

He growls and thumps the steering wheel in frustration. He should have known it was all too good to be true. He asks himself again how he could have been so sadly deluded.

He feels like such a fool.

At least he's no longer stuck in the _ridiculous_ holding pattern that he's been circling in for the last four damn years. He knows where he stands now.

Finally he can move _on_.

* * *

Author's Note: Best read the next chapter to find out what went wrong, huh? (And guess I'd better write it, huh? (wink))

(And folks who wanted the 4:30am caller to be Castle, nuh-uh. They're soooo not there yet. But give me some time and they will be...OH YES (wink)).

Thanks to Ky, ALWAYS MAAATE.

Howls of frustration, anger and pitchforks can be directed to the Review button below (wink).


	6. Chapter 5

_DAY 3: Monday_

* * *

_Her eyes are closed and there's a quickening in the rise and fall of her chest; she's breathing faster as she writhes and undulates before him._

_He's only a little disappointed that it's the pounding beat of a nightclub PA system she's surrendering to, and not the smooth rhythm of his hands and lips and tongue in the quiet of his bedroom._

_He doesn't mind so much though, because when she opens her eyes, she's staring straight at him. Her gaze pins him and he can't look away. She's looking at him like she wants to eat him alive._

_There's no deflecting, no signaling for backup or to order more drinks. No texts or calls from other men. Nothing standing in their way. No running, no hiding._

_No wall._

_Blood courses through him, and there's an itch in his fingers. They want to be on her body. He wants to kiss her and not come up for air._

_At some point not long ago, though he can't pinpoint exactly when, they crossed a line. And even if there's the slim chance they don't end up going home together tonight - they'll have to go into the precinct if they manage to apprehend their suspect - it won't be a long wait till he's hers._

_Right now, he can't take his eyes off her. He's rooted to the floor, trying to keep his cool. But standing here watching her, watching her watching him...even without grasping hands on naked skin, and feverish kisses and clothes peeled away and strewn across his loft..._

_Even without all that, this is beginning to feel a lot like foreplay, and-_

"Richard dear, I'm home!"

* * *

He wakes to his mother's voice and checks the time on his bedside clock. It's already nine.

He wipes his hands over his face. Of all the dreams for his mother to walk in on... He takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly, and enjoys the hot ache in his groin that he has come to expect after Kate Beckett invades his dreams.

He sighs and stretches out, from head to toe, as his steel gray, high thread count sheets slide over his skin, caressing him like soft hands. He yawns out loud, and rubs at his scalp.

He's a little bummed that it was the nightclub takedown dream that was interrupted. It's totally become a favorite. Which is lucky; he's had that one more than once.

If he can't have the woman he wants, right now at least, hot dreams about her, almost as if on tap, will have to do.

Back to reality, though. His mother's timing? Flawless. _And_ he's front and center for her Walk of Shame. He had been hoping to avoid that.

And he would have avoided it, too. If Beckett had called-

"Come break your fast with me, dear. I must tell you about my night..."'

He shudders as he gets up. "Have to take a shower, Mother, see you in a bit." He thanks his good sense, or that of his designer, not for the first time, for planning an en suite bathroom into the loft's first remodel. The master bedroom didn't originally have a bathroom, but as a single man in his prime, living with a teenage daughter and his mother, he wants to guard his privacy, and, importantly, like today, be able to escape quickly if the situation demands.

There are some things a grown man is happy to never, ever, know about his mother.

What she got up to last night, being top of the list.

* * *

As he flips the shower faucet on and warms his body in the hot spray, he contemplates the fact that he hasn't heard from Beckett this morning. It's not a problem. Really.

It's just, it's Monday; he hasn't seen her for two days.

They're not in the kind of relationship - yet - where they'd see each other regularly on weekends. Apart from the odd catch-up for a drink after work with the guys, they - probably wisely - don't go out very much on their own. Not like a couple would. He doesn't know for sure why that is, but he can guess.

It's the uncomfortable questions. Do I dress up or down? Pick her up? Bring her flowers? Do we go out for a meal? Is it a _date_ date? The answer to each, bringing with it a potential minefield of awkward.

Let alone the question of a kiss. They've already had one; albeit an undercover ruse. That kiss that they've never talked about. Not to this day.

That one kiss, the thought of which sends a bolt of heat right through him.

It'd be even worse for her, given her tendency to overthink stuff like this.

Of course, like anything that has to do with any future relationship they might end up having, this is not something they talk about.

So...he doesn't get to see her on weekends. That's two whole days in the week without her.

And he just...misses her. He just wants to see her face.

She was on call last night, if he recalls the roster that's tacked up in the break room. So if there was a body this morning, she, then he, would definitely have heard about it.

And today, she'll finish the day being on call, and then she'll be on days all this week. Then she's off for four days: the weekend, and Monday and Tuesday of next week.

Even when she was seeing Josh, Castle knew her roster backwards, way better than the lanky surgeon did. The thought gives him a little boost.

But now that she's on days, if there's no body, she'll still text him close to the beginning of shift to let him know that's the case. Since the day he called her from the New Amsterdam Bank and Trust, she still, with no small hint of irony, invites him in to the precinct to help with paperwork. He'll, of course, reply with token excuses.

But then he'll show anyway, with two hot takeout coffees in hand, and a smile for her, that's answered with one of her own.

And that'll be mission accomplished as far as he's concerned. Day made.

So given either scenario, he's a little disappointed that she hasn't called.

* * *

So, he's had a little setback.

But while he's not one to push a woman too hard, to take things faster than she's prepared to go, he's not above playing a little dirty pool.

He puts on a cobalt-blue shirt under a navy silk wool suit, in a combination that brings out the blue of his eyes.

As he picks up his razor and his shaving brush, he catches his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. He rubs the coarse beard hair that's starting to make an appearance on the lower half of his face, and smiles wryly.

He thinks back to the early days, when he was following Beckett on sufferance, not as the member of her team that he has become. Not her...friend. Partner...lover in waiting.

Whatever he is.

The chemistry between the two of them had sizzled and crackled, and made the air heavy, thick between them, like a latent lightning strike. He loved to get in her space, push her, needle her. Then witness the warring impulses that he fancied he saw playing across her face. He knew she wavered between wanting to kiss him silly or to punch his lights out.

Back then, he can remember really working the "bad boy" routine - including the rough, stubbly jawline - because he could tell from day one that it really got her worked up.

He smirks and puts the shaving brush and razor back into the storage basket on the vanity.

_Let's see if we can't still get Kate Beckett a little worked up._

* * *

His mother is sitting at the kitchen island pouring coffee into a tall mug as he exits his room. She salutes him with the coffee pot, one eyebrow raised. He nods, and she pours him a mug and hands it to him.

"Thank you, Mother. Good morning."

"Well you look nice, darling. Book signing in a bar?"

"No, mother, just the precinct."

His mother gives him a skeptical head-to-toe onceover and dismisses the contradiction with an airy wave. "Of course, dear. Just another day at the office. So who's the lucky girl this time? Do I even need to ask?"

"Now, now, Mother, you know I don't flirt and tell."

"Yes, there's a first time for everything, I suppose. And you're not gallivanting around on page six like you used to. This one must be special. There's definitely something to be said for cultivating an air of mystery. I was just discussing this very thing with my man friend yesterday while we were-"

Castle gives an anguished yelp and claps his hands over his ears. "Mother, please! I thought we agreed that you would never tell me anything about what you talk about or do with your man friends ever?"

"Now, dear, don't be an old fuddy-duddy. You know I would never share any real specifics about my little _affaires du cœur_!"

"Mother, the mere fact that you've been indulging in something that requires a French term is far more information than I will ever need!"

"Oh..." Martha waves her hand in a way that's both elaborate and dismissive. "So how is Detective Beckett these days? We must have her over for dinner again. She really is such delightful company."

"Yeah, she is. I haven't seen her since last week. She was on call last night. I thought she might have called me already." He tries, really hard, not to sound too glum.

Martha pats him on the arm. "Oh..." She sits back. "Richard, you know it is acceptable for the gentleman to call the lady..." She lowers her tone and delivers a Vaudevillian wink. "Sometimes you gotta make the moves, kiddo. What are you waiting for?"

"She's not there yet, Mother. When she's ready, she'll let me know."

"Oh, Richard. Well, if it's any consolation, when Detective Beckett walked into that bank vault, she had eyes for exactly one person in that roomful of hostages and I don't flatter myself for a second to think that it was me. If she wasn't ready then, I bet you she soon will be. If you want my advice, you'll stop pussyfooting around and ask the girl out. She's not going to be single forever. And who knows, we could all be dead tomorrow. Who knew we would even make it out of that bank vault alive?"

* * *

Beckett walks back to her patrol car. She checks her Dad's watch. Ten AM.

She's been up for six hours already, and this being the first twenty-four hours of a murder investigation, she'll be lucky if she gets out of the precinct before midnight.

She sighs, and rubs her eyes, willing them to stop stinging and stay open. She needs a coffee, or she's not going to make it through another hour, let alone until lunchtime. She yawns.

Her cell phone buzzes. She reads the caller display, but doesn't pick up.

She wonders if Castle has noticed she hasn't called him yet.

Sure he has. She can count on it.

He loves her, she's aware of that, and while they don't talk about what there _isn't _between them, she knows that makes him focus with laser precision on what they_ do_ have. A friendship. A close working partnership.

Beckett doesn't call? There's definitely something up.

She suspects that by trying to take it easy on herself by not calling him, she's just made it worse.

Her stomach roils as she anticipates the coming awkward confrontation.

* * *

She rolls her cruiser into the underground parking lot at the precinct and parks in the last of the unassigned spots.

She never did get that coffee, and she's glad to no longer be driving. She can feel herself zoning out. She catches herself staring at her hands on the steering wheel.

Another fifteen minutes of that traffic and she may have fallen asleep at the wheel.

Her cell phone buzzes again. She reads the notification screen, then throws the cell back into her tote.

She realizes she needs to move if she wants to stay awake, so she picks up her bag, and climbs out of the car.

She's far from ready to face the day.

* * *

She's greeted by the relative quiet of an empty bullpen. Espo and Ryan are helping out on another case today, so she knows she may not see them. Even the Captain is out at some corporate love-in at 1PP.

It doesn't look like Castle has surfaced yet. She can't help feeling a little relieved.

She needs to set up the investigation and assemble the murder board, but she takes a short detour into the break room to fix herself that long-awaited coffee.

Walking into the break room, the first thing she sees is the couch, looking so inviting that suddenly she wants more than anything to sit down, lean back, and shut her eyes for five minutes.

_Just a five minute power nap should do it..._

* * *

_They skulked into this corner not long ago, under cover of darkness and of the driving beat, and she barely had time to lead him by hand over to the wall before he was on her._

_Now, he's got her up against the wall. She has her palms pressed to it, and she's trying not to hyperventilate because he's got a handful of her hair, and he's tugging just on the rough side of gentle, and the sharp sting from her scalp, and the feel of his mouth on her lips, then her throat, and the pressure of him close, so close, amplifies the slick hot pool that's been gathering between her thighs all evening._

_He's pinned her against the wall with his hard, broad body, and it drives the breath out of her; she's helpless to do anything but groan, and push against the large erection imprinting itself into her pelvis through her short, tight, dress, and try not to faint._

_Her mind is spinning at the fact that it's him, and they're here, and this is the last place she expected something like this to happen with him._

_Not that she has any problem with their choice of venue. Because it's him, and she's wracked with the need to have him. Now._

_They could honestly be anywhere, and it would still feel this right._

* * *

He's still mulling over his mother's words when he leaves the coffee shop with two takeout cups and completes the walk to the precinct in the cool fall morning sun.

_Maybe the bank heist did change things between us._

He exits the elevator, carrying two tall coffees and a smile. The smile fades as he strides into an empty bullpen.

He puffs out a lungful of air, and the smile disappears, as he walks over to carefully place the two cardboard cups down on Beckett's desk.

Where are they?

Esposito's leather jacket and Ryan's steel grey suit jacket are draped over the detectives' respective chairs. Well, the boys are still in the building, at least.

Beckett's desk, though, is clear of any files, and her computer workstation hasn't been switched on. She's not even here yet.

He's aware they're not chained to their desks and could be anywhere, but still...

He sighs and sits in his chair, looking around him, and taking a pencil from the caddy on the side of the desk, begins to fidget without purpose.

He looks up with a start. _Was that...?_

He looks around the bullpen. Still no one around, but it occurs to him he didn't check the break room for signs of life when he arrived.

He gets up and wanders over to the source of the woman's voice he just heard.

He stops dead at the break room door. "Kate, what are you-"

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter was brought to you by writerly frustration and angst, endless rewrites to work out where I needed it to go, sick babies, pitchforks and cattle prods, and an endless supply of milk and gingernut cookies. And Ky, for an extra awesome beta. Love your work, grrl!

Soz about the cliffhangers (though they're not ALL cliffies; they're a mix of cliffies, delayed gratification and holding back information from the audience...gratification which I eventually resolve and information which I eventually divulge). This technique helps this mostly beginner writer work out good places for chapter breaks. Hope it works for you, even if it's a bit frustrating (wink)

You like? Let me know xo


	7. Chapter 6

_...Then his mouth captures hers again, and his big, warm hands engulf the backs of her bare thighs, pulling the hemline of her dress up over her hips, hoisting her off her feet to clamp her body to his; she wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. _

_He grinds into her. She groans; clings to him. Dizzy with wanting him and with a flood of sensation, so long restrained, now set free to roam her body. Desire wreaks havoc, makes her pant and sigh; makes her skin hot; her hands hungry for him, for his touch._

_She clings to him, with her mouth, with her body, never wanting to let go. His hand creeps down between them, and sets loose a moan from deep within her. Her head drops back against the wall-_

"Kate... what are you...?"

* * *

His voice pierces her consciousness.

She's half-sitting, half sprawled over the arm of the sofa, cell phone in her lap, as she becomes aware of her surroundings. She shifts fully upright, squirming as the inner springs inside the back cushion of the ancient, faux-leather-clad seat dig into her lower back, which is now bent out of shape by the awkward position she's been dozing in.

She sits up with a groan, looks around, blinking, leaning forward and rubbing the kinks out of her vertebrae. Voices, footfalls echoing on hard corridor floors, doors opening and clanging shut; it all filters into her awareness. _Precinct. I'm in the precinct_.

"Kate...are you okay?"

She swivels her head in the direction of his voice...and blushes to see her nightclub lover at the break room door. He's looking at her, his head tilted to one side, brow slightly furrowed. She blushes. _How long has he been there?_ "Castle..."

He strides the couple of steps to sit beside her on the sofa.

Approaching her seems to have eased any concern he has. He breaks into a grin. "Were you sleeping, Detective Beckett? Sorry we're keeping you up..."

She drops her gaze to her hands, fussing with her cell, losing any vain hope she had that he's not going to make a big deal about this.

"Kate...were you having a nightmare?" She notes with dismay that he's got that look – his eyes have a sparkle, and he had spoken fast, clearly on the trail of a Beckett-related mystery. And he won't stop asking questions till he's revealed some embarrassing secret about her.

_Oh god, what did he hear?_ She blushes anew, and she feels the burn of tears behind her eyes. It's one thing to have feelings for a guy, but it's quite another to put them right out there where he can see them.

Worst of all, in her workplace.

She puts her hands over her face, rubbing suddenly damp eyes, and tries to keep further symptoms of her extreme embarrassment under wraps. "I haven't been sleeping very well lately. Got called out to a scene at four thirty this morning. When I got back here I could barely keep my eyes open. Thought I'd just rest my eyes for a couple minutes." She checks the time display of her cell phone. "Oh no. I've been out for thirty minutes."

At that moment, her phone rings loud in her hand. She startles and drops it, and it falls with a clatter onto the hardwood floor. She sighs and bends down from her seat to pick it up, glances at the caller ID but doesn't answer.

She stares into her lap, and then peeks at Castle through her lashes. He's still beside her, but has started to lean in towards her.

He's got his gaze fixed on her and has a sly smirk on his face. "Kate...! Were you..."

She stands abruptly, backing away, while sneaking a glance at the workstations outside. Gates and the boys are still away from their desks.

"I need to get set up, Castle. And I need a coffee." She turns towards the coffee machine.

He looms in her peripheral vision. "Kate..."

She glances up at him, then her gaze swerves down, away from his, hovering around his jawline. And embarrassment is replaced with...something. She notes that he hasn't shaved, and tries not to dwell too long on the fact that he looks...scruffy.

And delicious. Like he used to look in the early days - when she found herself drawn to him against her will, and when she honestly thought he was trying to drive her mad. With irritation or lust; she's not sure what.

Their relationship's different now; he's different - they both are - they're both older, but she still finds herself a little dazzled by his looks.

He moves and she looks up and suddenly he's _right there_. He's looking down at her, and there's something; a warmth. Or a trick of the light. Something in his eyes that wasn't there last week.

Now he's _staring_ at her. And grinning. Dammit. So _not helping_. She drops her gaze further to where the vibrant blue shirt meets the tan skin of his neck, and the tempting hollow at the base of his throat, peeking out of the open collar that invites further investigation by curious fingers. _Or maybe a tongue. Oh god._

Her gaze is drawn to his mouth, and her breath hitches in her chest. She feels her cheeks burning. Again. She feels an urge to escalate this. To not step back or take cover. To step forward, instead of retreating, and seeing what happens.

...but she takes a step back. _Not today, Kate. Not the time or the place._

Then she feels him curl a warm hand around her elbow, tugging her gently towards him, and they're suddenly so close together she catches a heady waft of spice from his cologne. She can't help but close her eyes briefly to regain her composure.

She opens her eyes again. He's watching and waiting; his eyes are soft and warm on her. He dips his head towards her. She stands her ground. Tracks him as he moves into her orbit, and stops. So close. Then he squeezes her upper arm and says into her ear, his voice barely above a murmur, "I'll make you a coffee, go get set up."

* * *

Her breathing kicks in again on her way back out to the bullpen, and she curses herself - again - for not calling him this morning. It was fatigue and fear doing her thinking for her, she knows that, but she's not just uncomfortable. Things are getting awkward now _and_ Castle knows something is up too.

She just hopes she can make it through the rest of the day with him in close proximity.

She's pretty sure he can be trusted to be professional in the workplace. But right now? She's not entirely sure _she_ can.

And that's the whole problem.

* * *

He watches her closely as she paces back and forth, pinning evidence onto a whiteboard: crime scene photographs, eight-by-ten shots of the victim, suspects, persons of interest. It's a familiar dance.

But today she's been different. There's a tremor in her hands. When she drops a crime scene photograph, and it skids unhelpfully under her desk, and she sighs and squats down to pick it up, she bumps her hip against the desk on the way down and her head on the way back up. She mutters a curse under her breath, rubbing at her temple. But she _still_ won't look at him.

Yet she keeps shooting him sideways glances. _Is she nervous? Checking me out? What?_ (He's doubtful, but he _totally_ hopes she's checking him out.)

But yeah, something's up.

And what he witnessed before...Heavy breathing. Shuddering breaths, gasping, whispering, the way she sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

The deep red she blushed, the moment she saw him sitting by her in the break room.

And she said something, though he didn't catch the words. He feels a distracting flash of heat to his groin as he speculates exactly what was going on there.

He suppresses further reflection on _that_ topic - for now - and he walks over and leans back to sit on the edge of her desk, observing her as she finishes assembling the evidence.

Leaving aside her demeanor, he's a little confused. She's barely mentioned the case, and she's quiet. Too quiet. Not a word about not calling him about the murder this morning.

"So...you caught a murder?"

She huffs out a sigh. Cuts him a glance and looks away. "Yeah...Castle, I'm sorry I didn't call you-" Another light blush.

"What happened?" he asks gently, noting her obvious discomfiture. He's not all that insulted. It's just... a murder without a call from her is unusual enough to raise a red flag with him. A real odd sock.

She's still looking at the board, but flicks a glance in his direction, before paying overly-minute attention to the board again. "Oh, it was so early, and I was really zonked out after a bad night. It slipped my mind to call you...I'm sorry..."

He regards her a few moments longer. He's willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, but... there's got to be more to it than that. Beckett has had late nights followed by early starts before but they certainly haven't made her so upset...jumpy even.

So he resolves to observe her closely today. Watch and learn. See what's going on with her. Because of the moments they've been having today in between the awkward, when her blushes and eye contact looked like something else.

Because if what's going on with her is anything like he's been experiencing lately, maybe the universe is trying to tell them _both_ something.

He won't push. But with everything he is, he needs to know.

And he wants for them to be able to talk. Soon. About all of it.

Their kiss last year. The look he knows he saw on her face when she busted him out of that bank vault a couple of weeks ago.

The way he feels about her. And the way he hopes she feels about him-

"So Castle...you wanna hear about this case or not?"

He refocuses his gaze again, from somewhere on the back wall behind her head to see she's facing him, an eyebrow raised, with a grin that looks like Detective Beckett's back in her comfort zone; almost back to her old self.

He jerks up from his leaning position against her desk to a stand.

"Sure. So where are we?" He steps up to join her at the board.

While she begins to talk him through the case so far, he smiles to himself. So where are they indeed? He knows now, more than ever, he wants them to talk about this thing. About what they are, what they're going to be.

Not here, not now. It'll keep.

But soon...he needs to get her alone and they're going to talk.

* * *

Author's Note: Hey! I missed you! Thanks to honeyandvodka and OnkelJo for beta services. Let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

DAY 3: Monday evening

* * *

Kate sets down the marker and flexes the fingers of her right hand, like they're starting to cramp into a permanent claw.

She stretches out her back, clasps her hands together and pulls her spine up against gravity, with the side effect of a sinuous sway of the hips. She huffs out a gusty sigh and drops her hands, looking back at her partner. He's leaning on her desk waiting for her, ostensibly watching the evening guys settle in, but she catches his gaze slipping toward the floor.

If she's not entirely mistaken, the twelfth precinct homicide team's civilian consultant just checked out her ass. Or maybe the flash of tan midriff that she's pretty sure she exposed with her full-body stretch.

Her cheeks turn pink, and she's unable to stifle a smirk, then a yawn as she steps away from the murder board. She supposes she could have been feeling a lot worse by now. She's grateful her earlier half-hour of fitful, dream-laden sleep was just enough to let her plow through the rest of the day and not feel on the verge of collapse. Turns out a totally inappropriate nap on the break room couch had been just what she needed, though its subject matter is going to make her blush for days.

As the evening team starts to pick up the threads of the investigation, she nods a farewell to them and turns towards her desk, picks up her coat and slides it on.

Everything's handed over and she's free for the evening. And as she packs her bag, it's as if an adrenaline rush that's pushed her through to the far end of the day begins to drain away, and she's drooping again. Her shoulders are rounding in fatigue, the insides of her eyelids starting to feel like they're lined with sandpaper. She swipes a hand across her eyes. It's past seven PM, and she's been working the case for nearly sixteen hours.

* * *

"C'mon...let's get you home." He braces himself for pushback. He's put himself out there more than once, asked her to let him help her out when it looks like she could use the support. Just once, she could surrender that hard won, bitter-fought independence, and it wouldn't cost her a thing. Just once.

He won't push. But today, she really, really looks like she could use it. Today, he might have to-

"Sure. Let's go."

He blinks, and has a brief moment of confusion. _That's new_.

His mind is still processing while he sweeps a hand towards the elevator, inviting her in.

They ride down in silence, while he watches her almost sleep standing up; more exhausted than he's ever seen her.

By the time they emerge from the sandstone facade of the 12th, the only trace of day that remains is a faint watercolour wash of streaked orange on the horizon, glimpsed between skyscrapers. He grabs her hand and pulls her along. "C'mon, this way."

A few hundred feet down the road, she barely makes a peep as he pulls her off the pavement.

"In here." They walk into a Szechuan restaurant, three blocks down from the precinct. He parks her on the vinyl love seat along the foyer wall between a potted yucca palm and the reception desk at front of house. While he's talking to the maitre d', she's tipping her head back to rest on the vintage flocked wallpaper and closing her eyes with a sigh; restaurant staff dart and patrons mill around them and in and out, and through the arched doorway to the dining room, and she seems to hear none of it.

Twenty minutes later, takeout bags in hand, he's nudging her awake and waving her through the front door he's propping open with his back.

She smiles her thanks and they set off at a sedate stroll together as rush hour traffic starts to give way to the bustle of weekday evening pleasure seekers.

He takes her hand with his free one, and pulls her across a crosswalk. And then doesn't let go of her hand at the other side. He leads her along the busy sidewalk, downtown towards her place. He notes with gratitude that she's apparently got the wherewithal to keep walking while yawning intermittently, and she's studiously avoiding direct eye contact. And she's blushing.

But she's showing no signs of minding at all.

He feels a warmth in his middle when he thinks about today. How different she's been; how much it feels like he's spent the day with more Kate, less Detective Beckett. And there's been a string of distracting moments that have muddled his head, rendered him foolish.

Made him think for a brief, bright, deluded moment that this, the walking and smiling, her eyes soft and tentative, yet warm. Her fingers twined in his, the glimpse of a blush on her cheek...

It's just enough to fool him into thinking that this how things are now.

Getting take out, hopping in a cab to the loft if the weather's bad; walking the easy few blocks from the precinct when it's not.

Bickering over whose place to go to. His when she wants the bustle of family around, Alexis rolling in from the Medical Examiner's full of shocked stories; Martha, gossiping, and laying siege to the wine cabinet.

Hers when they need to be alone.

The thought of how much he wants this - an everyday reality with her - makes him dizzy. Makes him want it so much that it burns in his gut.

He's tugged out of his daydream by the clump of vacant taxis heading straight for them. She stands beside him, swaying, as he throws his arm up, thanking the cab gods when one turns up impossibly quickly. He recites her address to the driver and bundles her into the back seat.

She leans her head back, eyes closed as the cab makes its way through thick traffic to her neighborhood. He sits still too, but there's an agitation under the surface. He can feel it heat his blood. Part excitement, part arousal, part surfeit of energy. He'd love to talk. He's got things to say. Hell, he just wants to check in, ask how she's doing. Then ask '_what_ are we doing?' But he's not keen to break the silence, lest she pick up on the turmoil inside his head, and wake up long enough to kick him out of the cab and make him walk back to Soho alone.

* * *

The cab pulls up about ten minutes later outside her apartment building. He pays the driver, including a large note as a tip, with a wink. The driver nods, salutes him and the car pulls away from the curb, and soon it's just the two of them, staring at each other, standing on the pavement.

"Well, Castle? You gonna feed me?"

* * *

She's stretched out on her sofa, he's at the other end. She's got her feet tucked underneath his thighs, there's a white paperboard Chinese take out box in her lap, she's half-leaning, half-lying, a curl in her back, head propped on the backrest of the sofa; fast asleep. Gently snoring, he notes with some of the kind of glee that makes him want to snap a phone pic of her and send it to the boys. But he doesn't, because seeing her vulnerable like this, and knowing that she trusts in him to the extent she's _okay _with him seeing her like this, makes his heart flip flop in his chest.

She tries to turn over to lie on her side, and fails to make a successful change in position. It's too cramped, and he's got her feet trapped under his legs, essentially pinning her down.

He stands with some haste to free her, moves silently to her and takes the take out container gently from her hands, placing it on the small end table; stooping to lift her. He carries her cradled in his arms over to the door that's standing ajar at the far end of her open plan living area. He has to assume it's her bedroom.

This is the first time he's ever been on this hallowed ground.

He gently toes open the door and hesitates just inside, but barely notices his surroundings, unable to stop staring at her face, peaceful in sleep. He wonders at her pliability - snug in his arms, hers wrapped around his neck.

Time was, and not that long ago, she would have flayed him alive for taking liberties like this.

He walks over and lays her gently on her bed. Unzips and gently removes her heeled boots, lining them up next to her nightstand. But he leaves the rest of her clothing undisturbed, and pulls the comforter up from the foot of the bed and over her.

He can't help leaning over, and placing a whisper-soft kiss just by her hairline. "Good night, Kate."

He has barely had time to stand and collect himself for the trip outside her bedroom when he hears a voice.

Hers.

"Castle-"

* * *

Author's note: Hello! This didn't actually take very long to write. Just all the faffing around working out if I was happy with it took about two weeks. I'm okay with it now. Many thanks to honeyandvodka for the beta, and to kyinhi for the constant and sweet encouragement and hassling to publish. This story would be nowhere without Ky (heart)! Also you on Twitter who know when to apply the boot. You know who you are ;)

This chapter AND the next were brought to you by the Write Chain Challenge. Try it! Set a daily writing goal and don't break the chain!

I'm absolutely thrilled with the response to this story so far. Thank you all for reading! Let me know your thoughts x


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